


Mirror Jump Scare

by okapi



Series: Spooky & Kooky (the Halloween fics) [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Ghost Sex, Ghost Sherlock, M/M, Mirrors, My Idea of a Happy Ending YMMV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-25 17:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16202366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Injured war hero John takes a drawing class at Roland-Kerr Further Education College. What he sees in the loo mirror , changes everything.An alternate version of "A Study in Pink." Ghost!Sherlock/Human!John.Note: for surprise's sake, I haven't tagged for everything. This is a read-at-your-own-risk ghost story. For Kinktober 2018 Day 4 - Mirror Sex.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, not everything is tagged for! This is a ghost story!
> 
> For Kinktober 2018 Day 4 - Mirror Sex.
> 
> Regarding the title, a jump scare is a technique often used in horror films intended to scare the audience by surprising them with an abrupt change in image or event, usually co-occurring with a loud, frightening sound.

“Slept in your clothes again, Watson?”

I grunted.

A pencil tapped against a clipboard.

“Last chance to sign up for art classes.”

I snorted.

“Oh, come on. They’re free. What else have you got going?”

The tapping continued.

“There’s pottery…”

I huffed and glanced at my left hand.

“…print-making…”

“I don’t know even know what that is.”

“…sketching…”

“Sketching? I suppose I ought to learn to do things with the right as the left’s sodding unreliable.”

“That’s the spirit. Wednesday and Thursdays. First class’s tonight. Bus leaves at 21:00. Be downstairs.”

“Today’s Thursday?!”

“Wednesday, Watson.”

“I’ve got an appointment today.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Can’t be bothered. I’ll text her. Reschedule.”

“Remember: 21:00. Bus.”

“Wait, bus? Where’s it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The sketching!”

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College.”

* * *

“How’s the blog going?”

“Yeah, good. Very good.”

“You haven’t written a word, have you?”

“I’m taking a sketching class.”

“That’s great, John. Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s good. Interesting.”

“How are you sleeping?”

“Last night wasn’t good.” Blame the nightmares. “Nightmares, you know.”

“Do you want to try…?”

“No.”

“John, why not trying sketching before you go to sleep or when you wake up? Use it express what you’re feeling, what you’re experiencing.”

“Good idea.”

“You’re a soldier. It’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. The blog, the art, they will honestly help you deal with what’s happening to you.”

What _was_ happening to me?

* * *

“John! John Watson!”

Christ, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together. Maybe…

* * *

“Come on—who’d want _me_ for a flatmate?”

Mike’s expression lost all its cheerfulness.

“What?”

“I was just wishing we’d met a few days ago.”

I took a sip of coffee.

“Mike, remember that Christmas Eve we told ghost stories in the cadaver lab?”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Still love a good gooseflesher.”

I took another sip.

“Got a story, John?”

“Maybe.” Sip. “Yeah.”

“Lunch?”

* * *

“The class was ending. I went to the loo. I was washing my hands like a good doctor…”

I heard the squeak of the taps, the water rushing, the plink-plink-plink as the thin stream hit the chipped porcelain, the gurgle down the drain, the whooshing echo, hollow and loud, in the emptiness…

“John?”

“Sorry. I was washing my hands. I look up. And there.”

“What?”

“Behind me. A man.”

“A man?”

“I jumped. I yelled. I turned around.”

He grinned. “And no one was there.”

“Yeah.” I laughed. “Just like a bloody horror film.”

“Mirror jump scare.”

“Right. My leg hurt, but I grabbed my cane and searched. Doors banging. Shoes shuffling. Panting—almost wheezing. Heart pounding. Blood pulsing in my ears like the bloody taps I forgot to shut off. But nobody was there. No one was there when I arrived. And no one arrived after me.”

“But are you certain, John? Maybe it was a shadow. Lights flickering.”

“I swear, Mike, I saw him as clearly as I see you now.”

“Huh. So what did you do?”

“I left. There. That’s my story. What do you think?”

He leaned his head to the side and looked thoughtful. “Hallucination?”

“That’s what frightens me the most. I’ve nightmares about the war, Mike, but _this wasn’t about the war_. And I’d never seen that man in my life. And…”

“What?”

“I could have sworn he was as surprised as I was.”

“The man in the mirror?”

“Yeah, I know, I known. Anyway, that’s not everything.”

He huffed. “There’s more?”

“Yeah. That was Wednesday. Second class was last night. I went back. Same thing. Loo was empty. Did my business. Washed my hands and,” I leaned in, “there he was. In the mirror. Same bloke.”

I felt the cold smooth ceramic in my grip. I heard the scrape of stone as the basin began to rent from the wall, heard the cane clatter on the hard floor, heard my own breath, no inhale, just shudder after shudder of exhale.

_oh-oh-OH! oh-oh-OH!_

“I didn’t let go. I didn’t blink. I didn’t think. I just looked at him.”

“And?!”

“And he looked at me! And I don’t know how long we stayed like that, staring at each other, but it was long enough for the coordinator to go searching for me.”

_Watson, stop shitting yourself! Let’s go! Bus’s here!_

“I checked as I left. No one was there.” I rubbed my face. “Tell me I’m mad, Mike. Tell me my life’s an Edgar Allan Poe story.”

“Do you see him at other times?’

“No. Just twice. Just there and just in the mirror. That’s the only thing that stopped me from telling Ella, my therapist. If I was seeing things everywhere, fine. But I’m not.”

“Where are the classes held?”   

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College.” His expression changed once more. “What? Do you know it?”

“What does the man look like, John?”

“I can do one better. Sketching class, right? I drew him. I spent all night trying to get it right.”

I pulled a folded sheet of paper out of my pocket and spread it out on the table.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Like I thought. You know who this is, right?”

“No! I’ve never seen him before in my life! What? I swear, Mike!”

“But you read the papers? Listen to the news? Go on the internet?”

“The world is a shithole, Mike. The news makes me want to eat my gun for breakfast _and_ tea. I’ve got a laptop. I mostly play patience.”

“This,” Mike tapped the drawing, “is Sherlock Holmes. He died Tuesday night at Roland-Kerr Further Education College.”

It was like a blow to the solar plexus. I couldn’t breathe.

“The police think he took his own life. They also think he was responsible for four other deaths. It’s all over the news. You must have seen a photo of him or heard something about him and your subconscious made a connection because of where you were. I mean, it’s worrying, but not totally unexplainable.”

“A serial killer? I’m seeing a bloody serial killer in the mirror of a loo.” I shook my head and exhaled. “It’s wrong, I know, but somehow I feel ten tons lighter. At least there’s a thread of logic that runs through it. You’re right. I must’ve heard something, seen something. I’m so glad I ran into you. I was beginning to think I was going to need to get fitted for the too-tight waistcoat. What? What’s wrong?”

“Like I said, I wish I’d met you a few days ago. I knew Sherlock. He liked to work in Barts lab. He was eccentric. For example, he liked to carry around a skull and talk to it. He liked to beat up corpses in the morgue just to see the bruises. He was rude, too, but brilliant, really the smartest person I’ve ever met. I liked him, and I think you would’ve liked him, too. He was looking for a flatmate. I could’ve introduced you.” His mouth curled in disgust. “I know he didn’t kill those people, no matter what the police or the papers say. It’s awful. They’re twisting everything, but then he gave the world a lot to twist. Well, listen, John, I’ve got to go. Things aren’t as bad as you think, eh? But be smart and tell your therapist about it. Keep in touch and I’ll keep an eye out for new digs for you.”

“Yeah, thanks, Mike, for everything.”


	2. Chapter 2

Five days. It’d been five days.

But there he was. In the mirror.

“Can you hear me?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I’m John.”

_Hi, John. I’m Sherlock._

There was no sound. Just the movement of his lips, lips that made me suddenly, irrationally wish I’d signed up for sculpting instead of sketching. They were perfect lips, and it was no burden to watch them as intently as I did. I stared, intent on catching ever word of his reply.

My left leg buckled, but I caught myself before I slumped too far.

Leaning hard on the wash basin, I fished a scrap of paper out of my jeans pocket. Something fell to the floor, but I didn’t bother to look to see what it was. Everything was going to plan, well, one of the many, many plans I’d outlined over the past five days. I’d supposed that if the moment arrived and if the man in the mirror was the ghost of Sherlock Holmes and if he was able to hear and comprehend me and to respond, all very big if’s, I kept telling myself, that I’d be too overwhelmed to do much more than gape and gawk and wonder what it all meant.

And I was right: my thoughts went blank until I read my own scrawl on the crumpled paper.

I looked up into the mirror and said,

“I ran into a friend of yours.”

Sherlock shook his head.

_I haven’t friends._

“Not true. Mike Stamford speaks very highly of you. He and I were at Barts together. I didn’t know who you were. I don’t read the papers. I don’t listen to news. I was shocked last week when I saw you. I suppose anyone would be, but I have nightmares and psychosomatic injuries and I thought I might have started hallucinating. I told Mike what I had seen, and I showed him my sketch, and he told me your name. Damn, where is my sketch?”

I looked down and watched, aghast, as the paper floated up from the floor and uncurled itself. It hovered so for a moment, then fell once more to the tile. I scooped it up quickly and returned it to my pocket.

I met his, Sherlock’s, gaze in the mirror. He said something I couldn’t catch.

“What? I’m not very good at lip reading…”

He drew closer until he might have been standing directly behind me.

I reached a flailing hand back and felt nothing.

He spoke again, this time very slowly, and I forced my mind to dwell nothing but those perfect lips.

_Rather good for a beginner._

“Thanks,” I said, feeling my face warm at the compliment. “Stamford told me what happened to you, how and where you died, and after lunch, I went to the library. I read newspapers, articles on the internet, everything I could find about you. Someone’s taken down your web site, but there were plenty of screen shots of it. You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”

A chin lifted. Grey eyes flashed with pride.

_I still can._

“Mike said you were the smartest person he’d ever met. I’ve been reading for days and thinking for days and what I really want to know is,” I glanced at my notes, “did you do what the police and the papers are saying? Did you kill four people just to prove you’re clever? Or because you’re a psychopath?”

_No. I didn’t kill anyone._

“You didn’t kill yourself?”

His mouth twisted.

_Yes._

He shrugged.

_No._

“You took the pill?”

_Yes._

“Did someone force you to take it? Convince you to take it?”

_It was a game._

“A game?!” I cried. “Well, as clever as you are, I’d say you lost! Sorry, sorry, that was rude.”

Sherlock’s smile was a rueful, mirthless one, but his shoulders lifted slightly like he might be chuckling softly.

“You died here, at the college?”

He nodded, then turned and pointed towards the door. Then he made a sweeping gesture.

“Down the hall?”

_Yes._

I glanced one last time at my notes, then shoved the paper into my pocket.

“I don’t see you anywhere else, just this mirror. Can you move from here? Go to other places?”

He shook his head.

“But you do have some force or energy. I mean, you picked up my…” I waved at where the sketch had fallen.

Then, suddenly, I was alone in the mirror.

“Sherlock?”

And the silent room erupted into a warzone of cacophonous sound.

Stall doors banged. Toilets flushed. Taps twisted, shooting water like tiny cannons.

I started violently, shouting and shaking.

There was the sound of running and a voice from without.

“Watson, what are you doing in there?! Are you all right?!”

I clenched my teeth, widened my stance, leaned forward, clinging to the porcelain. From the side, it probably looked as if I were about to launch myself head-first into the reflection. I stumbled over my words.

“Quick, I have to go, but I want to help. I want to clear your name. I want to find whoever killed those people. I’m just a broken soldier, but I want to do something useful with myself. And I have time. Please tell me how…”

I realised my babbling was fogging the glass, but then an invisible finger began to write.

_Lestrade_

_221 Baker St._

The voice in the hall was grew louder.

“Watson?!”

I reached up and rubbed the mirror with my sleeve. “I do feel like the governess at Bly.”

A pair of perfect lips smirked.

_But, John, I’m no Peter Quint._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter Quint is a ghost in Henry James's _The Turn of the Screw_.


	3. Chapter 3

“You say you don’t have friends, Sherlock, but you’re wrong. I found Detective Inspector Lestrade. He wasn’t at Scotland Yard. He was at a pub, half-tight at ten in the morning. He’s on administrative leave because of your case. He didn’t want to talk to me, but I persisted, and when he finally saw that I really wasn’t a reporter, he let me join him. I think he felt sorry for me with leg and all. Standing him a couple of rounds didn’t hurt, either. He said you were a great man and that he was sorry he never saw you become a good one.”

I leaned into the wash basin. Sherlock was standing behind me, awkwardly shifting back and forth, his eyes refusing to meet mine in the glass.

“And Mrs. Hudson, well, she’s a bit of mess, the poor dear. When _she_ realised I wasn’t a reporter, she showed me the flat. I told her a bit about myself, and she made coffee. We had biscuits, too. She apologised for the biscuits being old and a bit hard, but they were perfect with the coffee, and well, I’m not picky. She said she’d made them the day after you moved in in and she hadn’t had the heart to eat them since. She told me Florentines were your favourites.”

Sherlock’s head was in profile. His lips were pressed tightly together.

“So, we had biscuits and coffee, and she told me all about Florida and how you helped her and how sorry she was that she never had the chance to help you. And the flat, 221B, was nice. I finally understood Stamford’s face when he said he wished that he and I had run into each other earlier. It would’ve done so well if we’d shared it. I learned an awful lot about Sherlock Holmes today.”

And fell a bit more in love, I added silently.

Sherlock inclined his head to the right and gave a half-shrug.

I hesitated, but just for an instant. This was moment I’d been waiting for.

“And then I found it.”

I was pleased that I’d said it as dramatically as I’d rehearsed it in my head.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, he moved closer, and he looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since I’d stepped in front of the mirror.

I grinned.

Gotcha, you tit.

“I wasn’t clever, by the way, just clumsy. Your things were packed up. Just a couple of boxes. Mrs. Hudson said that the police had taken the rest of it. But they left the skull. I suppose nobody thought to examine it.”

Sherlock cast a look of derision somewhere to my left.

_Idiots._

“The skull was perched right on top of an open box that was piled full of books and bizarre odds and ends. Mrs. Hudson went downstairs to take a telephone call. I was looking at the skull, then I got curious and reached down to pick it up. I lost my balance. My cane hit the box, and the skull tumbled to the floor.”

_It broke?_

“Yes. ‘Sorry not sorry’ about that because of what happened next. I picked up the broken bits and stashed them in the box, but I found what you’d hidden inside.”

I held up a thin black square about the width of a matchbox.

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted.

_Well done, John._

My heart began to race, but I pushed on.

“Stamford said you were known for odd habits, like talking to a skull in public. Maybe it helped you think, maybe you just liked it, but I also think you were recording yourself. Med students, doctors do it all the time. I haven’t had time to listen to the whole thing. I had to get back to catch the bus. But I heard you on your way to a crime scene, describing how Detective Inspector Lestrade had asked for your help. You were excited. You said it was like it’s Christmas. You talked about the three earlier suicides. Then you were at the crime scene, examining the body of the fourth victim. I listened to your observations and conclusions. You were extraordinary.”

Sherlock looked mildly surprised.

_You think so?_

“Of course! Quite extraordinary.”

_That’s not what people normally said._

“What did they normally say?”

_PISS OFF!_

I laughed and then looked down at the little black square.

“You can’t know how chuffed I am to have a voice to go with a face, Sherlock. I suspected you were a posh git, but this confirmed it. Did you do it a lot? Record yourself?”

Sherlock looked away, still smiling, and nodded.

_All the time._

I studied his beautiful face. The urge to confess was too strong.

“When I’m not thinking about the case, I’m sketching.” I returned the device to my pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. I held it up to the mirror.

_You’re getting better._

“Thanks.” I put the drawing back in my pocket. “Sometimes I still doubt that you’re real, Sherlock. Sometimes I think I made you up, am still making you up, but what happened today, well, it makes me think there just might be a purpose to it. When I got back to my bedsit, I decided to get organised. You should see it: newspaper clippings, things printed from the internet, a map of the city, all my notes. On the wall, on the desk, on the floor, everywhere, but neat and logical.”

_Being a detective is contagious._

“Yeah. Sherlock, do you think…?”

I stopped myself.

_Yes, John I think we would’ve made a great team._

I smiled and nodded and said the very things I’d sworn not to say.

“Not to put too dramatic a point on it, but this, you, Sherlock, have given me a reason to wake up in the morning. I’ve got something to think about at night. I haven’t had a nightmare in almost a week. I don’t even think about the war. Or my leg and hand, well, not as much as I did. So, the thing is, Sherlock, I’m not going to stop. I promise you that I am going to figure out who killed you and clear your name. Or die trying.”

Sherlock drew closer and rested a gloved hand on each of my shoulders. I felt the weight of him, pressing down, anchoring me, grounding me, holding me fast and sure to the earth, to whatever was.

And in that moment, it didn’t hurt to be. I closed my eyes, savouring the sensation, and couldn’t be arsed to stifle a long, contented exhale.

We stayed like that a long time, or maybe just a few minutes, but when my eyes fluttered open, I met Sherlock’s gaze, which was soft and earnest.

_Don’t try dying, John. 0/10 - would not recommend._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mirror sex.

I burst into the loo, my lungs burning, my body aching with the Herculean effort of crossing a dozen streets and climbing a flight of stairs at full speed.

“Sherlock?!”

I flew to the mirror, crying out with relief when I saw him.

_What’s wrong?_

“So much. Thought I’d figured it out. Was wrong. Never mind that. The point is this: I found him. Or he found me. The man who killed you, I mean. He just kidnapped me. Took me to a warehouse. Asked me all kinds of questions about you. He said he had been your enemy. Your archenemy. Of course, you have an archenemy. Oddly enough, he didn’t kill me or convince me to kill myself. I kept waiting for it, but it didn’t happen. He knew things, Sherlock, things about me, things no one could know.”

Sherlock’s lips moved.

“What? I’m not getting it. My—something?”

A gloved hand waved impatiently at the mirror.

John quickly fogged the glass with his breath and watched the words appear.

_MYCROFT IS MY BROTHER._

“Your brother killed you?!”

_NO. JUST A PRAT._

“Well, yeah, I got that. Huh.” I wiped the glass with my sleeve. “He did his best to intimidate me. Didn’t work. And I didn’t tell him about seeing you, though he definitely suspected I wasn’t telling the whole truth. Oh, well, I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed he wasn’t the killer.” I caught my breath. “Crazy, but I wasn’t certain you’d be here on the weekend.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened. He raised both hands in a helpless gesture.

_I’m always here, John._

“Right. I also wasn’t certain I could get in.”

_I keep the doors unlocked._

My jaw dropped.

“Really? Why?”

Sherlock looked away and shrugged _._

_Just in case._

“In case of what?” But Sherlock’s expression told me that was all he wanted to say on the matter, so I changed the subject. “Well, I had your brother’s PA drop me off some distance from here, and I walked the rest of the way. Or ran, well, the best I can manage as far as running. Convenient, inconvenient, I had to get to you. I couldn’t wait until class on Wednesday. I thought…”

My thoughts skipped ahead, and I didn’t notice I’d stopped talking until a gloved hand waved anxiously.

_Hello? John? You thought what?_

I shook my head. “Nothing. Do you know how gorgeous you are?”

Sherlock blushed.

“Sorry. Forget that.” I dropped my chin to my chest and fixed my gaze on the porcelain. “It’s the sketching. I’ve been studying your face too much. Getting to be like that Pygmalion fellow.”

Hands on my shoulders made me look up.

_It’s okay, John. You’re aren’t Pygmalion. Or Victor Frankenstein. I’m not your creation. I’m myself—just in a rottenly inconvenient state. And I think about you, too. All the time, in fact. And I have even more time to think than you do._

His word made me bold.

“Sherlock, do you think we might have been…?”

_No._

“Oh, right. Just a hypothetical question.”

_If we had shared a flat, John, I’d have been pining for you indefinitely, without ever summoning the courage to say anything._

“You?”

He nodded.

_Me. Coward._

“Huh. Who knows?” I teased. “Maybe, I would’ve figured it out and made the first move.”

Sherlock smiled.

_That’s my fantasy. Now let me see if I can help with yours._

He stepped closer.

“You aren’t…”

_I’d very much like to try. Consider it an experiment. Yes?_

I nodded.

“All right. Yeah.”

As Sherlock’s eyelids drooped, so did mine.

And then he was touching me.

How, I didn’t know, but I felt something, or somethings, perhaps, because whatever it was seemed to divide and wind its way into my jeans and around my prick. It didn’t feel like the touch of hand, it didn’t even feel like the touch of skin.

It just _felt_.

It ran up and down my shaft. It cupped my bollocks. It squeezed and stroked.

I forced myself to open my eyes.

Sherlock’s head was bent, but if he’d been a material being, he’d have been pressed to my back, his forehead resting on the ridge of my shoulder.

But it was bizarre: I felt him nowhere but around my prick. But there? There, as my blood pooled and tissues stiffened? Oh, God.

I looked down but saw nothing, not even the tenting of the front of my jeans. Indeed, there wasn’t a single sign of anything that my body was experiencing, save my own white-knuckled grip on the wash basin and my feet rocking from heels to toes in keeping with the rhythm of the pleasure.

Something was still wrapped tightly ‘round my prick, but something else, something I would never be able to name, was entering me. And not through any orifice or piercing of the skin.

But it was so tender and so beautiful and it made me tremble so, I suppose it must’ve been love.

“Sherlock!”

He raised his eyebrows.

_I’d call that a success._

“Yeah,” I said with a shaky chuckle. “Can I…?”

He shook his head.

_No. More’s the pity._

“Yeah.” I shifted and grimaced at the wetness inside my jeans. “Goodness, it’s been a long time since I came in my pants. I think I’m going to have an uncomfortable cab ride back to—oh, fuck, speaking of, I almost forgot! I suppose being kidnapped and having ghost sex will do that.”

_What did you forget, John?_

“Your case. Before your brother kidnapped me, I came up with a theory. It’s probably not right, but, Sherlock, did a cabbie kill you?”

The colour drained from Sherlock’s face, and his expression became grave.

_How did you come up with that?_

“It was what you said on the way to the restaurant. _Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_ I kept thinking about the four suicides and trying to figure out what might have linked them. Then there was the cab you ran down. I thought, maybe, well, it was the driver who got your text and not the passenger, and then, the last bit of the recording, well, the last bit that included you, the very end was just Yarders being rude, Mrs. Hudson announced that there was a taxi waiting for you and you left. I thought it all might point to a cabbie. Just an idea.”

_Yes, it was a cabbie._

I froze.

Oh, God. I’d figured it out! I’d actually figured it out!

Then I began to speak very quickly.

“Tell me his name, Sherlock, what he looked like, anything about the taxi. I’ll take it all straight to Lestrade. I was planning to turn over the recording to him anyway after I figured out how to make a copy or a transcript.”

Sherlock shook his head slowly. He mumbled, as if to himself.

_I don’t know. I don’t know._

Then he looked up.

“Sherlock, please! I can do this! Let me do it! Maybe this will free you!”

_WHAM!_

I was on my back, on the floor, staring up at the lights.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?”

I looked around frantically.

I saw nothing, nothing, nothing.

“Sherlock, please!”

But then, something caught my eye: a black square affixed to the underside of the wash basin.

I pried it from the porcelain and saw that it was another recording device.

I stood up and looked in the mirror.

_Sorry, John. I’m very dramatic._

“Yeah, I got that, but whatever. This is the last one, isn’t it? The last recording you ever made. You hid the first one in the skull, but you had another one in your pocket when you went downstairs.”

Sherlock nodded.

“You recorded what happened to you, and after you took the pill, you managed to hide it in here, and then…”

My heart broke at his eyes, so full of sorrow.

_I stumbled down the hall and died._

“Do you know his name, Sherlock? Is it on here?”

Sherlock nodded and gestured at the glass. I fogged it at once and read the name.

“Ok. I’m going to Lestrade directly. It’s not that late. I’m going to walk and if any taxi approaches me, I’m going to run.”

An imprint of a pair of perfect lips formed on the glass; then an invisible hand wiped the mirror clean.

_Be careful, John._


	5. Chapter 5

I could hardly wait for the bus to stop. I forced myself to walk slowly up the stairs, the day’s newspaper tucked under my arm. I didn’t even bother to stop by the classroom, but rather headed straight for the loo—which was cordoned off with tape and cones and OUT OF ORDER / UNDER RENOVATION signs.

“Use the other one, Watson. I heard there was a bomb or something.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I walked slowly down the hall and then, when I was certain I was alone, hurried back. I eased carefully between the lines of caution tape and went inside.

“Sherlock?”

There was nothing.

No stalls. No urinals. Nothing.

Save one mirror.

I hurried.

“Sherlock?”

_JOHN!_

“What happened? Did you do this?”

_WHEN YOU DIDN’T COME BACK…I THOUGHT…I WAS UPSET…BUT I DIDN’T LET THEM TAKE THE MIRROR…JUST IN CASE…_

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I should’ve come back sooner, but I wanted to wait until there was something solid to show you. And here is!”

I held up the newspaper.

“Police arrested Jefferson Hope this morning! He confessed to everything! You’ve been cleared! We got the bastard!”

He smiled a full smile, which I returned.

_Oh, well done, John._

“Well done us.”

_Well done us._

“And look: no cane. The hand’s not giving me any trouble, either. When I left here on Saturday, I texted Lestrade. He said to meet him at the pub where I found him on Thursday. I was in such a hurry to get to him, to get the recording to him, I just decided to run, and my cane got left behind.”

_That’s wonderful._

“I did wonder if, maybe, well, you might not be here. Now that everything’s over. Well, almost over. Detective Inspector Lestrade told me that they are still looking for your ‘fan,’ the one who funded Hope. It’s just a matter of time, though.”

 _I don’t know, John_ …

The loo door open.

“Oh, hello.”

“Sorry, nothing here,” I said. “You’ll have to use the one down the hall.”

“But you’re here, John.”

“Do I know you?”

“No. But I think we’re in the same fandom.”

“Fandom?”

“The Sherlock Holmes fandom.”

My blood froze.

“You’re…”

“…curious about you, Doctor Watson.”

I made for the door. He stepped in front of me.

“Get out of my way.”

“Nope.”

Outside, there were alarms, then voices raised.

“It’s a bomb threat,” said the stranger. “Or should I say a bomb promise? Yes, sounds more romantic. Don’t worry. I told your instructor that you didn’t feel well and went outside. Nobody’s looking for you. They’re too busy evacuating. It’ll be too late when they do the maths. It always is.”

I stepped back slowly until I was once more in front of the mirror. I didn’t risk a glance at Sherlock, but I knew he was there.

“You’re him,” I said. “You’re the one who funded Jefferson Hope.”

“I’m not certain what you are, Doctor Watson, except a loose end. And I just can’t have that. Pity, though, you were doing so well with your sketching.”

“You’re going to blow me up.”

“Nah, I’m going to shoot you, then I’m going to blow you up. I’ve got a secret weapon. Yours.” He giggled.

Then it was between us.

My revolver.

I turned to face the mirror.

Sherlock’s face was a mask of rage. His lips moved, but they needn’t have.

I understood.

On three.

One.

Two.

The stranger walked towards me. “Good, Doctor Watson, it’s always better to cooperate. Just stand there and think of—" He stepped behind me and lifted his arm. The small metal ring pressed against my temple.

“SHERLOCK!”

BANG!

I was falling, falling falling...

Fallen.

But as my back hit the floor, I looked up and watched as Sherlock’s ephemeral form reached through the stranger and wrenched the mirror from the wall and brought it down on the stranger’s head.

And then it was raining shards, a flickering, fluttering mosaic of quicksilver snowflakes, each reflecting a tiny piece of the ghost that was Sherlock Holmes.

And then he was standing over me.

“John?”

His voice!

I heard it and not from a recording.

“Am I dying, Sherlock?”

“Yes. But so’s he.”

“Good. I suppose we’ll finally be together.  You and I, I mean.”

“We should have been together weeks ago. You’re extraordinary, John.”

“Look at you, stealing my lines. I’m cold, Sherlock.”

“I’ve got you, John. I’ve got you.”

“Sherlock, I thought we were, well, meant to be.”

“Yes, me, too.”

“Do you think that means we get a do-over?”

He laughed. “What's a do-over?”

“Do-over,” murmured the stranger. He was lying on the floor, his lifeless face streaked with blood. “Sounds good to me. Catch. You. Later.”

“No, you won’t,” said Sherlock. “Will he, John? John?"

He looked down, but I was already gone.


	6. Chapter 6

“Slept in your clothes again, Watson?”

I grunted.

A pencil tapped against a clipboard.

“Last chance to sign up for art classes. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got the worst case of déjà vu.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

I snorted. “Hilarious.”

“Oh, come on. They’re free. What else have you got going?”

The tapping continued.

“There’s pottery…”

I huffed and glanced at my left hand.

“…print-making…”

“I don’t know even know what that is.”

“…sketching…”

“Sketching? I suppose I ought to learn to do things with the right as the left’s sodding unreliable.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“No, wait, never mind.”

“Watson!”

“I know, but, no, thanks.” I exhaled. “I’ve got to get ready. I’ve got an appointment today.”

“Don’t we all? Well, would you at least get some fresh air? Try a walk through the park or something.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, maybe on the way back.”

“Good. Try something new, and you never know what might happen to you, Watson.”

“Nothing ever happens to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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